Page 72 of Triple Play
He’s watching me with eyes that are trying so hard to be brave and failing spectacularly.
I flip the switch.
The overhead light goes out. The room is still illuminated by the lamps, but it’s dimmer. Softer.
Wyatt’s breathing has quickened, shallow and rapid.
“You’re okay,” I reassure him as I move to the desk lamp. “I’m right here.”
That lamp goes out too. Now only the bedside lamp and the closet light remain. The room is noticeably darker, shadows creeping in from the corners.
His hand grips the sheets so tightly that his knuckles are white.
I sit back down next to him and take his hand again. “Still with me?”
“Yeah.” His voice is strained.
“Last two,” I warn. “Do you want me to stop?”
He’s quiet, breathing hard, clearly battling every instinct. Then he replies, “No. Do it.”
I turn off the closet light, then the bedside lamp.
The room plunges into darkness—not complete darkness, as there’s ambient light from the streetlamp outside and the moon, just enough to make out shapes and shadows.
Wyatt makes a sound—close to panic.
I’m back on the bed instantly, taking both his hands in mine. “Hey. Look at me. Look at me, Wyatt.”
His eyes find mine in the dim light—wild, scared.
“You’re not there,” I tell him firmly. “You’re here. With me. In your room.”
“I can see it.” His voice is wrecked, broken in a way that makes me want to gather all his pieces and put them back together. “I can see the flames. Hear the way the fire crackled. The smoke alarm kept going and going, and I couldn’t—”
“I know.” I squeeze his hands harder, demanding his focus. “But it’s not real. Not right now. Focus on me. On my hands. On my voice. Right here. Right now.”
His breathing is still too fast, but he’s holding onto me like a lifeline, his eyes locked on mine.
“Don’t go.”
The words are barely audible, raw and desperate, cracking something open in my chest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise, meaning it more than I’ve meant anything in a long time. “Where do you want me?”
He doesn’t answer with words—just shifts back on the bed, making room. An invitation.
I climb onto the mattress, and he immediately reaches for me, his hands finding my waist with a certainty that suggests his body knows what it needs, even if his mind is still catching up. He pulls me down, positioning me so I’m draped across his chest, my head tucked under his chin, my leg thrown over his thighs.
I can feel every breath he takes, the solid warmth of him beneath and around me. His heart hammers against my ear, too fast but gradually slowing.
“Like this,” he murmurs into my hair, wrapping his arms around me properly now, holding me close like I’m something precious he’s afraid of losing. “Just like this.”
I let myself melt into him, molding my body to his. One of my arms drapes across his chest, feeling the defined muscle there, his fever-hot skin beneath my palm. I tuck myself closer, pressing against him until there’s no space left between us. He makes a sound—half relief, half something else.
His hand slides up my back, under my shirt, palm flat against my spine. It’s not sexual—just contact. Skin on skin. Grounding.
“Is this okay?” I ask, needing to be sure, needing to know I’m helping and not making this worse.
